


Tempestatibus Bonum Est

by 17 pansies (17pansies)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blowjobs, Distinct lack of angst, First Time, M/M, gratuitous use of weather as a plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1289923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17pansies/pseuds/17%20pansies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 15 hours for the Come-at-once community on LJ.  My prompt was <i>adversity makes strange bedfellows</i> (sic).</p><p>I adore Sherlock Holmes in all his guises, but it is in his original form, with all his Victorian idiosyncrasies, that I love him best.</p><p>Unbeta'd and briefly edited due to time constraints.  I will return and fix any glaring errors once I have tracked down and captured a suitable beta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempestatibus Bonum Est

I am no stranger to adversity. I also believe that most of us, at one time or another, have suffered hardship and misfortune through no fault of our own.

However, out of adversity sometimes comes moments of sublime contentment. Occasionally, these moments can render all previous inconveniences little more than trifles. 

Consider the month of January, if you will. It had been one of the coldest and wettest in living memory. The temperature hovered at almost freezing, so the day’s rain iced up overnight, thawed marginally the following day under fresh rain, and then refroze the next night. It was a cycle which repeated itself each night for almost a fortnight, and by the end of it, I was beside myself with the confinement. The thick layer of ice which covered virtually every flat surface conspired to keep the good people of London at home in front of their fires.

“Why will it not just snow!?” I exclaimed one evening. Holmes looked up from his current experiment, blinked at me and returned his attention to his pipettes. 

“Because the barometer has not dropped sufficiently,” he replied, squinting at a tiny bottle. “Another day or two, Watson, then we shall have the snow you desire. Although why you should wish for such a thing is beyond me.”

“At least I can venture out in the snow with stout boots and a cane. In this accursed ice I dare not step foot outdoors.” I sighed, my sudden burst of frustration replaced almost immediately with the soul crushing ennui which had plagued me for a week. The great Sherlock Holmes didn’t have a monopoly on black moods, it appeared. I was quite capable of slipping into a brown study with little provocation.

“My dear man, come away from the window.” Holmes stood, carefully pushing his experiment to one side and crossed the room to me. “Staring out at the weather like it has done you a gross injustice will not help in any way. Here, come by the fire.”

“I’m sorry Holmes.” I sighed and let myself be led towards the merry blaze. “I do hate being cooped up.”

“I understand.” He smiled. I had no idea why he was in such a placid mood. It was normally Holmes who started pacing the floor when we were confined to quarters. But he had been almost cheerful for the past week or so, and I’d caught him looking me on more than one occasion, an enigmatic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Which, of course, was the other matter playing on my mind. Restricted as we were, I had little to occupy my days other than with my study of my fellow lodger. There was only so much time one could spend reading the papers or writing one’s journal. Even the little stories involving our latest cases didn’t interest me. 

Instead, I was condemned to spend all my moments watching Sherlock Holmes go about his business, which was both at once a torture and a delight. I lived in constant fear of being discovered, but the opportunity to observe him for hours on end, without interruption, was delightful. I made sure to always have a book or newspaper in my hands, so if he caught me looking in his direction, I could smile and go back to my reading, as if I had no more than glanced in his direction.

I should have known that he was not as occupied as I believed him to be.

I awoke the following morning to an eerily still silence. No milk cart clanking up the street with its dippers and ladles rattling against the churns, no butcher’s boys knocking on doors offering the day’s chops and sausages. Not even the distant cry of the newspaper seller on the corner of the Marylebone Road could be heard. 

I swung my feet out of bed and shivered as the icy air hit me. Sure enough, when I drew the curtain back I was greeted by the sight of London buried under half a foot of snow. At last, I thought. I could escape.

Holmes put paid to that idea quite rapidly over breakfast, however.

“You cannot go outside this morning, Watson. To do so would be foolish in the extreme.”

“Snow compacts beneath my boots and provides a perfectly adequate grip as long as I am careful,” I replied stiffly. 

“Beneath that innocuous layer of white lies an inch of solid ice, dear boy. Your cane would go straight through the snow and find no purchase whatsoever. I am not feeling so energetic that I would wish to carry your good self back up our seventeen steps were you to slip and do yourself a mischief.”

I glared at him, my expression no doubt mulish and he leaned over to pat my knee.

“Do not worry, though. Later on today I have need of a visit to the tobacconist, and if we go together, each with a cane and the other for support, I do believe we will make the trip intact.” He smiled, that soft little expression which he only ever seemed to aim at me, and against which I was powerless. “Do you not agree, Watson?”

“Of course, Holmes.” I pulled my gaze from his and studied the remains of my breakfast, now cold and unappetising. “I do believe I will have another cup of tea then.”

I spent the morning pacing between the window and the fire, stopping now and then to read a page of my book or an article in the newspaper, but I was impatient to escape. I knew that part of me would desire nothing more than a return to the warmth of the fire before Holmes and I were halfway to the tobacconist, but I ignored that perverse corner of my mind and looked forward to our impending jaunt. After a lunch of hot soup with bread and butter, Holmes vanished into his bedroom to find ‘a suitable outfit’, whilst I donned a layer of fine Scotch wool over my shirt, eschewing my jacket as not warm enough. The cream Aran sweater was my best defence against the January cold, and with the addition of muffler, gloves and a heavy felt hat, I decided I would be warm enough for the quarter mile walk.

Holmes emerged swaddled in a long striped scarf the likes of which I’d not seen before, on top of a distinctly worn looking pea coat. On his head was a knit cap which was pulled down over his eyebrows, and between the scarf wrapped over most of his face and the cap, all I could see were his eyes. 

“Arctic expedition?” I asked, unable to help my smile. Holmes’ eyes crinkled at the edges.

“Lay on, McDuff!” he cried, and scooped up a cane from the stand by the door. “We will probably be committed to a sanatorium if we are spotted out in this weather, but let us enjoy our time together whilst we have it.”

I nearly choked on that particular sentiment, but could do no more than nod, and open the door.

The wind had all but died down so our walk, whilst bracing, was not as uncomfortable as I had anticipated. The snow crunched delightfully underfoot, and having Holmes’ arm through mine as we walked was reason enough to be out. He held discourse as we walked, informing me of how the drifts of snow could tell him many things, the small footprints of rodents, birds and children crisscrossing our path. 

“You are quiet, Watson. Is your leg hurting?”

“Not at all,” I replied, my mind more on where I was placing my feet than on the words coming from my mouth. “I am simply enjoying the company, and listening to you talk.”

“You have had my company all week without break. Surely you must tire of me sometimes, and the prattle of my voice.”

“I will never tire of you, Holmes, and would happily listen to you prattle till the end of my days.” I felt my cane slip slightly, and took a tighter grip on the handle. It was only when Holmes stayed silent that I played my last words over in my head, and cringed. “I mean, that is…” I tried to find the words, but Holmes squeezed my arm in his.

“I do not like thinking of your end of days,” Holmes said, his voice subdued. He stopped suddenly, and my momentum carried me forward until our linked arms swung me around to face him. “Please, Watson, for my peace of mind, do not mention such a thing again.”

His seriousness surprised me. I had thought Holmes the type of man to not get overly attached to anyone, let alone a crippled ex-Army doctor.

“If you wish.”

“I do. By all means, say until the end of my days, which will hopefully come sooner than yours if God has any mercy.”

“How is that merciful?” I asked, aghast. The idea of living in a world without a Sherlock Holmes in it was a dreadful concept.

“Because I do not wish to outlive you.” His eyes skittered across my face, then away. “I can think of no worse thing.”

“And do I not get the same consideration?” I asked, indignant. “Do you think I wish to remain without you?”

We stood silent in the snow. I didn’t know about Holmes but I was replaying our last words over and over in my head and a small corner of my mind was leaping about in ecstatic delight at the vast possibilities that had just opened up before us.

Another part, however, was more concerned with the possibility that we were entering dangerous territory.

“Come,” I said, tugging on Holmes’ arm. “The tobacconist is there. We cannot stand about on the street or we will freeze.”

It was a quiet, thoughtful Holmes that bought his ounce of shag and half an ounce of flake. I purchased some cigarettes and half an ounce of pips, and together, we began our walk back. My mind was whirling about in such a state that I confess I remember little of the journey home. Whether fate stepped in, or Holmes was steering us well I do not know; but I only know that we arrived before the door of 221b upright and unharmed, and barely touched by the frost.

Safely ensconced before the fire and free of our cold weather attire, Holmes called for some tea, and asked Mrs Hudson when she brought it if she wouldn’t mind doing us a late supper as he wanted to undertake a somewhat delicate experiment and would require complete silence in order to concentrate. She rolled her eyes a little and offered me a sympathetic smile, but my mind was spinning a hundred miles per hour.

Holmes all but ushered her out of the sitting room door and quite deliberately turned the key in the lock behind her. My heart leapt up into my throat as he leaned back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest and regarded me with his head on one side.

“I feel, Watson, that the time has come for us to address certain matters.”

“And what matters would they be?” I asked. To busy myself, I poured two cups of tea, adding a touch of milk and a single piece of sugar to each. 

“Matters which, were we to address them head on without due care, would have us hauled before the magistrate.”

I picked up my cup and noticed that my hands were perfectly steady. 

“Ah,” I said, and took a sip. It was good and strong, the Indian blend Mrs Hudson knew I favoured. “And how, precisely, are we meant to address these matters?”

Holmes uncrossed his arms and moved to pick up his cup of tea. He gulped it down in a couple of mouthfuls, his eyes never leaving mine. A tight knot of anxiety was growing in my stomach, accompanied by a warmth which bloomed through my nether regions, making me shift uncomfortably in my chair.

“First, stand up,” Holmes instructed, putting his teacup down with a rattle. I complied and was somewhat startled when he caught hold of my hand and pulled me to face him, almost toe to toe, on the rug before the fire. “Thank you. And now, in order to further this experiment, I must add a reagent to the mix.”

“And that reagent is?” He had not let go of my hand, I noted, and the firm warmth of his grasp was reassuring, a grounding anchor in the whirling maelstrom of emotion he had so rapidly stirred up.

“Just a simple thing, Watson,” he said, and leaning forward, he pressed his lips to mine.

For a single eternal second, I froze. I could smell his cologne, his hair pomade, the tea he’d just drunk.

Then my more base instincts kicked in, and I caught him around the back of the neck to kiss him deeply. To my utter delight, the great Sherlock Holmes all but melted against me and I used my other hand on his waist to pull him close. He was a few inches taller than I, but slender as a whippet.

“Goodness, Watson,” Holmes murmured as we parted, breathing hard. “I must remember to handle this type of reagent with more care during my experiments in future.”

“I trust you will not be in the habit of making such experiments with just anyone,” I replied and he chortled, a sound made doubly pleasing by the vibration of his chest against mine. 

“Had I know you were so amenable to the idea, I would have instigated this trial much earlier.”

“How do you wish to proceed?” I dipped my head and pressed a kiss to the soft skin of his neck beneath his ear. “For I must warn you, I have had a great deal of time to think about a moment such as this.”

“I surmised as much,” Holmes said with a smirk. “To be quite frank, my dear, I have only limited experience in this arena, whereas yours extends over three continents, does it not? I shall be guided by you.”

The dear, dear man, I thought, feeling something tighten around my heart. It wasn’t often that Holmes admitted to a deficit of knowledge in any arena, and the trust implicit in him handing the reins to me in such a manner… 

“In that case,” I said softly. “I would dearly like to divest you of your clothing and spread you out across the nearest bed. Does that sound agreeable?”

He blinked, his eyes growing dark and he nodded.

“Eminently.”

Watching Holmes disrobe was one of the most erotic sights I had ever been presented with. He was not coy or teasing, but instead approached the task with a single minded fervour which was most flattering. I shed my own clothes, the soft knit jumper tangling up with my shirt in my haste to remove it. One of my cuffs was flipped across the bed, the other fell to the floor. Holmes grinned at me.

“In a hurry for anything, Watson?”

“Only to get my mouth on you,” I replied, and watched him swallow thickly, eyes round.

I pressed him back onto the bed, my hands delighting in the smooth warmth of his skin. He was not without flaws, and small scars here and there caught my attention only to be passed over as I moved onto the next pale expanse. 

“Watson, you are quite torturing me here,” he complained at one point, to which I laughed. In all my dreams I had never even dared to hope to find myself there, naked as the day I was born with an equally naked Holmes spread out beneath me. I straddled his hips and bit back a groan as our pricks rubbed together. 

“At some point, I am going to need you to fuck me,” I told him, and watched in interest as his prick twitched at my words. “And then, at a later date, I will wish to return the favour.”

Holmes actually moaned aloud at that.

“But for now,” I told him. “I have a great need to discover what you taste like.”

Wriggling back until I was kneeling between Holmes’ legs, I looked up at him with a smile. He’d propped himself up on his elbows and his expression was almost reverent.

“Has anyone ever done this to you?” I asked, and felt a surge of possessive delight when he shook his head. “Excellent.”

I had done it before, of course. No man could go from boarding school to the Army without gleaning some experience of other men’s bodies. I had never wanted to do it quite so much, however. 

Holmes’ prick was much like the man himself, long and slender, and it was a warm, pleasant weight on my tongue. Holmes shuddered beneath me and I placed a firm hand on each hip as he bucked up into my mouth.

“God, Watson, I’m sorry,” he gasped, but I hummed around him in forgiveness. He all but whimpered at that. I set a rapid pace, months of slow simmering desire finding outlet in the taste of him and as he approached his little death, I discovered that Holmes was a talker. He babbled at me, head thrashing on the pillow, spouting endearments and profanities and pleas. I felt him thicken and so slowed my pace, earning me a growl and a curse. 

He was delightfully sensitive. When I judged he had calmed a little, I resumed my earlier pace, pulling off occasionally to flick my tongue across the slit and nip at the frenulum with gentle lips. His breathing increased, hips twitching beneath my hands. 

“Watson please, do not stop, please never stop, fuck, your mouth, oh god,” Holmes muttered, hands coming up to pet over my head, fingers threading through my hair and cup my ears. “Please, fuck, please, Watson.”

I flexed my own hips, rubbing my neglected cockstand against the bedclothes. Hearing him beg was doing things to me I never anticipated they would. Holmes’ voice was commanding enough in daylight, but here, in the semi-darkness behind drawn curtains, his words rough with need and desire, it was inflaming. 

Taking one hand off his hips, I slipped my fingers beneath his ballsack and allowed them to trail gently down over his perineum and into the cleft of his arse. As my finger brushed over the tightly furled muscle there, he gave an inarticulate cry and convulsed. He spent himself into my mouth and I nursed him through it, suckling gently as he subsided onto the bed, shaking and gasping for air. 

“Oh Watson,” he said, voice wrecked. “My dear man, good lord.”

In spite of my own quite urgent need, I slid up the bed to press my lips to his. I wasn’t sure how he would appreciate such a move, as many men do not care for the taste of themselves. Holmes, as usual, surprised me yet again. Both his hands clutched at my face and he kissed me deeply, making a satisfied hum as our tongues met.

I couldn’t help the movement of my hips and almost whimpered as my straining erection rubbed along the side of his thigh.

“Oh, please, you must think me so selfish,” Holmes exclaimed, breaking the kiss and tugging at my shoulder. “Come, closer.”

Unsure as to what he had in mind, I allowed him to manoeuvre me, until I was lying on my back and then I nearly cried out as his long fingered hand wrapped firmly around my prick.

“What little experience I have lies in this direction,” he told me softly, mouth against my ear. His breath made me shiver, and then my eyes closed as he gave an experimental tug.

“Please, Holmes,” I whispered. I had rarely felt as desperate as I did in that moment.

“As you asked so nicely,” he replied, and set up a firm, steady rhythm. I pressed the back of my wrist against my mouth in an effort to suppress the moans which threatened to escape and alert all around us to what was happening. His grip was perfect, just firm enough and he rubbed over the head with his thumb on alternate strokes. After that, I admit to losing track of his technique as I was only aware of the exquisite pressure growing within me. Then Holmes, the scoundrel, leaned forward and bit lightly at one of my flat nipples.

I came with a smothered shout, hips thrusting up into the air, my ejaculate painting white stripes over my belly and chest. For a long moment, all I could hear was my breathing and my heart pounding in my ears. Shivers of delight raced through me. Beside me, Holmes gave a pleased purr.

“You are quite magnificent, Watson,” he said, touching one slender finger to the mess on my chest. My poor spent prick gave a feeble lurch as he thoughtfully licked his finger. He pulled a face, then smiled. “It is not something I could not become used to,” he noted.

“My dear Holmes,” I sighed, and pulled him down for another kiss. Kissing Holmes was something I had thought about at length, and the fact I could actually do it now was something that would never grow old. “So, how long do you think you could draw this experiment out today?”

Holmes laughed, delighted. 

“As long as you like, old boy. As long as you like.”


End file.
